


Burn

by Randomosities



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: BDSM, Dom Roman, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Punishment, Spanking, Sub Dean, Whipping, ambreigns - Freeform, roman punishes dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomosities/pseuds/Randomosities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took one fight over something as superficial as Dean leaving his personal belongings strewn everywhere, Roman all sharp and angry and fucking beautiful, for Dean to realize what he really needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> A Tumblr anon sweet-talked me into writing this, haha. This is a fill for a prompt said anon dropped in my inbox.
> 
> Prompt: "I would love a d/s type ambreigns fic where Dean asks (or rather begs) for Roman to punish him. Details of punishment and reason for punishment is up to you. But bonus points if spanking is involved (double bonus points if it's with a belt). Needs to be safe sane and consensual."

At first, it was subtle.

It was the occasional itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried.

Then it became a constant itch. One he tried so desperately to scratch, but all his efforts continued to fail.

And after that, it became a burn. A feeling of need that zipped through him every time Roman looked at him a certain way, that flushed his skin with heat every time he got too close to Roman.

He tried to get what he thought he needed, letting Roman touch him just a second too long, letting Roman pull him to his chest and kiss his forehead, murmuring softly to him all the while.

But as he would eventually find out, these affectionate gestures weren’t what he needed, although he certainly enjoyed them.

It took one fight over something as superficial as Dean leaving his personal belongings strewn everywhere, Roman all sharp and angry and fucking _beautiful,_ for Dean to realize what he really needed.

* * *

He knew he couldn’t get it from Roman. They were close, sure, and maybe they’d hold each other close and kiss the other’s forehead, but it was never more than friendly affection.

So he tried to get it from others, but it was never enough. The constant thrumming need under his skin would only lessen slightly; never enough to make a difference, never enough for him to be sated. And that fact was driving him mad. It was starting to show in the ring, too, his movements more aggressive than usual, anger at the fact that he couldn’t be satisfied with what he’d gotten settling just beneath his skin.

And, more often than not, when Roman tried to talk to him, when he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean would snap at him, practically growling like a fucking dog. Because he refused to admit that the one person who could probably give him what he needed was his best friend, his brother.

* * *

He tosses and turns in the shitty hotel room bed for hours one night before he finally admits to himself that what he needs is for Roman Reigns to punish him.

And that’s how he ends up here, in the passenger seat of a rental car, Roman in the driver’s seat telling him something that he disagrees with. He’s cranky, has been cranky since he refused to get up that morning and Roman threatened to leave him behind if he didn’t get his ass in the car in 5 minutes.

“Dean, it’s your turn to drive.”

They’re halfway to whatever town Smackdown’s supposed to be in tonight, some town in the middle of Wyoming Dean can’t give a fuck about, when Roman pulls onto the shoulder and tells him that. It’s probably true; Roman’s been driving since they left the hotel, but driving’s the last thing he feels like doing.

“Don’t wanna fuckin’ drive,” he mutters, folding his arms over his chest. “You do it. ‘S not that far.”

“It’s another fifty miles. We promised to split it even, remember?”

“Don’t fuckin’ care. I ain’t drivin’.”

“Dean,” Roman says, starting to sound exasperated, “it won’t kill you to drive fifty miles.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dean,” Roman begins, but Dean interrupts him.

“Nope. Not fuckin’ driving, Reigns. If we never make it to Smackdown ‘cause you can’t drive for another fifty miles, ‘s your fault.”

Roman sighs. “Fine,” he says as he pulls back onto the road, and Dean wishes he could help the thrumming under his skin that only intensified with the slightly angry bite of Roman’s final word.

* * *

They make it to the little town in Wyoming, and they make it to Smackdown, but not without Roman bitching about his legs hurting from driving so much. Dean makes a vaguely suggestive offer to ‘kiss it better’, but all he receives is a raised eyebrow and a snort.

Dean loses his match that night, and it serves to piss him off even more, so much so that when Roman comes and finds him, he’s all harsh words and cold glances, shrugging Roman’s hand off his shoulder and telling him to ‘fuck off’.

He stops in his tracks at the look Roman gives him after that; he’d describe it as a mix of anger and heat, if he didn’t know any better, didn’t know there couldn’t possibly be any heat, the good kind of heat.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Roman asks. “You’re acting like such a bitch today. I ought to fuckin’ punish you or something.”

Oh, _fuck._ Dean nearly whimpers at the suggestion, because he definitely wants that, definitely _needs_ that, and the thrumming under his skin, the burn, is so intense it hurts.

“You should,” he rasps, mouth so dry that his words barely come out louder than a whisper.

“I should what?”

“Punish me.”

Roman studies him then, and Dean starts to squirm underneath the weight of the other man’s gaze, until Roman clasps his shoulder again and squeezes it, and Dean goes still, nearly limp under the pressure of his hand.

“Is that what you want?” he finally asks. “You want me to punish you?”

Dean forces himself to look at Roman, and there’s definitely heat in that gaze now, and Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing or what the fuck Roman’s doing, but he thinks the heat he sees is an indication that he’s doing something right, so he pushes it farther.

“Yeah,” he says, tipping his head forward slowly, in a nod.

Roman doesn’t say anything, so Dean tacks on a “Please,” for good measure.

“Tell you what,” Roman says slowly, his voice a low rumble that immediately sends blood rushing to Dean’s lower regions, “we’ll go back to the hotel, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

 _Fuck yes._ And even though his mouth is still dry and his skin feels like it’s on fucking fire and his heart is pounding in his chest, he still finds a smart-ass remark on his tongue. “Gonna punish me real good, Rome?” he asks, and the smoldering look Roman gives him in response makes his legs wobble.

“Of course,” Roman says easily. “Nothing less for you.”

* * *

The time it takes for them to get from the arena to the hotel is much too long for Dean’s liking, and he’s practically vibrating in his seat with restless energy the whole way there, only stilling when Roman places a hand on Dean’s thigh and tells him to calm down in that low voice of his that does absolutely wicked things to Dean.

When they finally make it back to the hotel, Roman tells Dean to go on up to their room, says he’ll be there in a little while, but he gives Dean his first order of the night: he wants to see Dean on his knees on the carpet, waiting for him, when he gets up to their room.

Dean goes ahead of him as requested, ambling up to their room with a hint of excessive excitement, but the order Roman gave him is just begging to be disobeyed.

So when Roman opens the door to their room, he’s sprawled out on the bed, laying on his stomach and propping his chin up with his hand.

“Hey, handsome,” he says, a shameless grin plastered on his face as Roman approaches.

“Thought I gave you an order,” Roman murmurs.

“You did. I just decided not to do it.”

Instead of the heat Dean’s expecting, a confused look passes across Roman’s face. “Do you not want to…?” he asks, trailing off.

“Of course I want to,” Dean says quickly. “We can use the colors and shit. What are they, fuck, uh…”

“Red, yellow, and green?” Roman responds, sounding more amused than he should be.

“Yeah. Those. Jus’ hurry up ‘n punish me already.” The buzz under his skin is starting again, distracting him and quickly making him grow restless and irritated. He needs what he knows only Roman can give to him, needs it now.

“What should I punish you for?” Roman asks, but now there’s the appropriate amount of heat in his tone and a smirk on his face.

“For bein’ a bitch earlier, like you said. And for disobeyin’ you just now.”

Roman looks at him for a concerningly long amount of time, staring at him with an expression he can’t quite decipher. It’s starting to bother him, and his need is only growing larger, feeling almost suffocating, so he snaps “Hurry the fuck up ‘n punish me, damn it, Ro.”

That seems to snap Roman out of whatever mysterious stupor he’d been in, and his voice is like gravel when he speaks. “Strip.”

Now _that’s_ an order Dean’s all too happy to comply with, and he nearly trips over himself in the rush to get off the bed and get his clothes off. He leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed, removing his boxer briefs last to stand there, naked as the day he was born, feeling vaguely self-conscious under Roman’s lustful gaze.

“Give me your belt.” Something in his chest leaps when Roman says that, an odd sort of excitement coursing through him as he reaches down to grab his jeans and pull the belt out of the fraying loops.

He hands the belt to Roman silently, watching as Roman examines the belt before muttering something that sounds like “This’ll do” as he puts it down on the bed. Roman sits down on the edge of the bed, the belt behind him, and pats his lap.

Dean stares at him blankly, not quite understanding what Roman wants.

“C’mon,” Roman says, inviting him in. “Over my lap.” And it clicks then, and he swears he feels all the blood in his body rush down to his cock as it gives an interested twitch.

He shuffles over to the bed and folds himself accordingly over Roman’s lap. Roman’s still dressed in his ring gear, and with Dean in this position, his cock is pressed against Roman’s thigh, and the urge to hump Roman’s thigh is very strong.

But not yet, of course. Not before the fun’s even started.

He feels Roman’s hand brush over the curve of his ass, and he pushes back into Roman’s hand, only to let out an embarrassing yelp when Roman pinches his ass.

“I gotta be able to sit tomorrow, Ro,” he says, and Roman offers him a very unconvincing apology, followed by the proclamation that when he’s done with Dean, Dean definitely will not be able to sit tomorrow.

Dean decides to allow it, as long as he gets off, as long as the burning need subsides. It’s already starting to lessen with him being in this position, with the ghost of Roman’s fingers across his ass.

“I’m gonna spank you,” Roman says, and Dean actually shudders. “And I want you to count for me. We’ll start with fifteen and go from there.”

Dean nods frantically, dropping his head so that his forehead is pressed into the sheets of the bed, and he swears he feels a kiss on his shoulder just before the first _smack_ that rings out.

“One,” he mumbles into the sheets, wriggling just so to get the tiniest bit of friction on his needy cock. Roman’s hand comes down again, and Dean mumbles “Two,” and he thinks Roman squeezes his ass once before his hand disappears.

By the time they get to five, Dean’s starting to feel it. The sting of Roman’s palm on his ass mixes with a bolt of pleasure each time, and it’s becoming very difficult not to grind himself against Roman’s leg and come all over his pants.

When they get to ten, Dean’s partially given into his desires and is now occasionally grinding himself against Roman’s leg, whimpering at the contact. He’s hard as hell and he’s swaying and his ass stings, but Roman’s there to ground him, murmuring praise in between each sharp slap, telling him how good he’s being. It only serves to heighten his arousal, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s dribbling pre-cum onto Roman’s pants by now.

When they reach fifteen, Dean’s burning need is all but nonexistent, translated into the arousal at the forefront of his mind. He’s involuntarily jerking his hips as he trembles, grinding against Roman’s leg with a muffled whimper, face pressed into the sheets. His ass feels like it’s on fire, but it’s a good kind of fire, the one that makes him feel alive. He can feel Roman’s arousal pressing insistently against his midsection, and some part of him finds it amusing that Roman’s just as turned on by this as Dean is.

“Color?” Roman asks, and Dean has to struggle for a few seconds to remember the colors, his mind a haze of Roman and pain-laced pleasure.

“Mmm… green.”

“Good boy,” Roman says, and Dean preens under the praise, closing his eyes as Roman litters his bare back with kisses. “You’re doing so good for me, Dean.”

“Rome,” Dean says in response, his tone practically a purr. The mix of pain and pleasure he’s experiencing is intoxicating, lulling him into a peaceful calmness.

“I think you need more, though,” Roman says, forcing Dean to resurface from the pit he’d fallen into. “You’ve been tryin’ to get off on my leg this whole time. Don’t think I couldn’t tell, Dean. And I didn’t say you could get off, so you need more punishment for tryin’ to do what I didn’t tell you to do.”

“But Ro—“ he begins, but Roman cuts him off.

“Don’t ‘but Ro’ me, Dean. You wanted punishment, so you got it,” he says, and Dean feels another kiss to his shoulder just before Roman pushes him off of him, ending up a few feet up the bed.

He watches as Roman stands up and reaches for Dean’s belt, the length of it looking awfully small in Roman’s large hands.

“Hands and knees, ass toward me, babe.”

It clicks then what Roman’s going to do, and Dean doesn’t have to be asked twice, hurriedly pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, although he’s wobbling slightly.

“I’m going to whip you with this,” he hears Roman say, and Roman must be closer to him; his voice sounds closer than before. “And if you wanna stop, just say red, okay?” Dean dips his head in a nod. “Color?”

“Green, green, green, Ro, please, do it, c’mon,” he begs, the words slipping from his lips mindlessly. “Punish me; I need it, Ro, please.”

“Count for me,” Roman says, just before the leather of the belt first makes contact with Dean’s skin, on the back of his thighs. He’s thankful Roman seems to be avoiding his ass for now, which is awfully sore, the pain cutting through his haze of lust and adrenaline, but doing nothing to inhibit his arousal.

“One,” Dean says, the word leaving his lips as more of a moan than anything else. The second bite of the leather follows the first one almost immediately, and Dean jerks with this one as he moans “Two,” his cock dripping pre-cum onto the sheets beneath him.

Roman stops at five, and Dean’s thighs are burning just as much as his ass, the stinging fire heightening his arousal. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, his cock flushed pink and steadily dripping pre-cum. He wants to reach under himself and get himself off, but Roman hasn’t told him to, and he doesn’t know if he can balance all his weight on one arm when he’s like this.

“Ro, I need to come, please let me come,” he begs. He knows it won’t take much more than a few strokes for him to come, what with him being on fire the way he is, but he wants Roman to give him permission, wants to be good for Roman.

“No,” Roman says, and his voice sounds strained, and Dean whips his head around to find that Roman’s jerking himself off, the asshole.

“C’mere, Ro, let me,” Dean says, crawling over to the end of the bed on shaky limbs, and Roman comes closer, and Dean wobbles as he reaches a hand up to wrap it around Roman’s cock, jerking him off with slow, practiced strokes that are the opposite of anything Dean’s feeling right now. Roman moans softly, and the sound sends a bolt of white-hot pleasure down Dean’s spine, and Dean actually shudders because he needs to come, needs it so badly it’s just about all he can think about.

Roman comes fairly quickly, moaning Dean’s name, and because of the angle Dean ends up with most of Roman’s cum on his face, but right now, he doesn’t really care.

“Please let me come, Ro, please, I need to come so bad, _please,_ ” he begs, and he’s on the verge of tears from frustration and prolonged arousal, so when Roman says no once more, this time with a hint of finality in his tone, Dean’s willingness to be good for Roman snaps.

Dean flips Roman the bird with one hand, grabbing his cock with the other hand and uttering a low moan as he does so. He jerks himself off with short, quick strokes, and his whole body shudders as he comes, spilling over his hand and onto the sheets, some streaks of cum even ending up on his chest and abdomen.

Roman looks displeased, although Dean swears he sees faint amusement in his eyes. He knows he probably looks a fucking mess, with cum on his face and body and red welts on his ass and thighs, but he couldn’t give a fuck. He’s too damn satisfied to give a fuck about how ridiculous he probably looks.

Roman sits down on the clean edge of the bed, and Dean immediately crawls over to him, seating himself in Roman’s lap. Roman looks at him with an eyebrow raised and that displeasured look still on his face, although one corner of his lips quirks upward.

“Somethin’ I can help you with?” Roman asks.

“More,” Dean rasps. “I need more, baby. Please.”

The look on Roman’s face tells him everything he needs to know.


End file.
